B U R N
by pancreasfish
Summary: Moriarty warned him. Was Sherlock listening? Moriarty's taking his heart piece by piece. Can Sherlock save it all?
1. The Message

**Okay, hi guys! This is my first time writing a Sherlock fanfic, so please go easy on me. This idea has been floating around for a while, and after planning it with a friend, I finally decided to actually upload it onto here. I hope you like it, and please follow/fave/review - each one means a lot to me, and knowing that people want to read my writing always makes me work faster! **

* * *

The sound of a violin bow being dragged harshly across its strings was what woke John the morning following his and Sherlock's return from Dartmoor. Rubbing one hand across his face blearily, John used the other to half-prop himself up against the headboard, taking a moment to let his mind catch up with his actions. It was _early_. So early that Sherlock's most recent case was little more than a blur; a collage of darkness, fog and a hound with red eyes. And gunshots. Lots of gunshots.

He couldn't even remember climbing into bed – or getting undressed, for that matter - after the long drive back to London.

On the floor below, the violin's strings screamed out in protest as someone – Sherlock, definitely Sherlock – worried at them with his bow like a dog worrying at a bone. "Sherlock!" John yelled, struggling to keep his voice audible over the gradual crescendo of noise, "Sherlock, shut that up! It's-" He spared a glance for the small clock on his nightstand, "-_Christ,_ it's four in the morning!"

The violin's strings gave one more clashing screech before the sound cut off abruptly. John lay back with a groan, pressing his hands against his face. _Four, three, two, one…_

He registered the creak of Sherlock's feet taking the stairs up to his room two - no three - at a time, and pushed away any thoughts of a few more hours sleep with a slight sense of regret. No rest for the wicked, wasn't that how it went? Well, that was how it went on 221b Baker Street, anyhow. Especially when Sherlock was bored.

With a dramatic flourish, Sherlock sent the door flying open as he waltzed into the bedroom, narrowly avoiding being clipped on the backside as the door connected with the wall and rebounded into its frame with a resounding crash. John winced. Mrs Hudson was not going to be happy with all the racket at that ungodly hour.

"You're awake." Sherlock brandished the bow at John like a fencing foil, who rolled his eyes and pushed it aside.

"Not up to your usual standards in the art of deduction, Sherlock. But I'm glad you took the time to make sure I was, in fact, awake before storming into my room."

Sherlock pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side, "It wasn't difficult to work out when you would be waking up. With the amount you drank yesterday, coupled with the fact you didn't go to the toilet before you went to sleep, made it quite clear-"

"All right, thank you. Let's leave it there." John eyed Sherlock as he sat up fully, pulling a couple of pillows from under him to shove between his back and the headboard. "Now, is there any particular reason you have woken me – and the rest of the street – at this time, or were you just… bored?"

His friend/colleague/patient/assumed significant other looked up from where he was examining a picture on John's windowsill. It was an old photo; a shot of John in uniform the day before he left for Afghanistan. A faint smile tugged the corner of John's lips as he remembered, but he quickly banished the thought. The past is for forgetting, not for dwelling.

"I need a case."

John raised his eyebrows and his hands in a synchronised motion of puzzlement, "And you want me to… what? Create one for you?" He set his head back against the pillows with a muffled thump. As much as he'd enjoy shooting a couple of people – Anderson -, he'd need more than Sherlock's "post-problem boredom" as an incentive. "Ring Lestrade later. Maybe he'll have something interesting for you to look at."

"No," Sherlock shook his head impatiently and turned away, "I mean I _don't have a case_. A _suitcase_. I need one for an experiment I'm doing. You have one, don't you? I remember it from when you first moved in. I need it."

John closed his eyes slowly as Sherlock strode from the room. It was going to be a long day. That much he could see already.

* * *

Half an hour later, John headed for the stairs, freshly washed and clothed. In one hand he lugged the suitcase Sherlock had demanded. It was covered in blue check, and, to be frank, he hated it. Any use Sherlock had for it would be welcome. It had been a gift from Harry when he'd first returned to England – she'd insisted it was for him to use if he ever needed to stay at her's, but John suspected it was more like a subtle hint for him to go on a long holiday abroad. It wasn't a secret that she'd felt inferior, unaccomplished and embarrassed around him. John being back in the country – injured – had been no doubt enough to trigger her back into a drunken stupor. Not that she'd got sober while he was in the war. But he would have better any money that she'd managed to curb her habits somewhat while he'd been away.

"John," Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen, and a second later he emerged into the sitting room, closely followed by Lestrade. "John, Lestrade has brought me a _case_!"

The detective inspector and John exchanged smiles and nods in way of greeting, before he turned to Sherlock and held up the suitcase, "I thought you wanted this?"

"Why would I want a suitcase? There's a crime to solve!" Sherlock whirled past a motionless John to tear his long coat from a hook on the front door.

John pressed his lips into a bloodless line and counted to ten in his head – a technique he was finding increasingly useful since moving into 221B - before replying. "So was there any reason for waking me up at four in the morning?"

The consulting detective gave John a quick smile as he tore the front door open, "Not anymore!" were his parting words as he barrelled down the stairs. "Come along, Lestrade! And you too, John, now that you're dressed. Why would you want to sleep through a _murder_ investigation?"

A muscle twitched in John's cheek, and he glared over at Lestrade, who looked just as tired as he felt. "It must be an important case, if you're here so early."

"Yeah, well, it's certainly unique. Come to think of it, someone with your level of expertise would be helpful, if you wanted to come down and check out the bodies?"

_Bodies. _More than one, then.

For a moment, John wondered whether to decline. It had been a stressful few days, after all. And he wasn't completely sure the drugs he'd been exposed to had worn off yet, despite Sherlock's reassurances.

On the other hand…

"Of course I would. Let me just grab a jacket."

* * *

Sherlock was already standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the horrific scene spread in front of him when John and Lestrade arrived at the scene. He inclined his head slightly as John joined him and spoke softly, without turning his head, "What do you think?"

_Jesus, _was John Watson's initial thought. _Jesus Christ._

It was the pool again. The same pool where John had been taken to, and forced to wait in the company of Jim Moriarty, a bomb strapped to his chest, until Sherlock had arrived and the 'real' game had begun. He'd thought he had seen the last of this place. Hoped he had, anyway. Apparently not.

But this time, the swimming pool had an added feature. Rearing out of the centre of the water, like the broken mast of a long-sunk pirate ship, was a gallows.

The long, single beam stretched out over the water, looming, and the lights from the bottom of the pool picked out and highlighted the four still forms hanging from them. Two on each side. The ropes around their necks were long enough that the bodies hung close to the water, the tips of their shoes just able to brush the surface. They were all male and all tall. Very tall.

The silence in the pool was deafening, the police officers taking photos and checking for evidence without a sound, a breath. Even the water was silent, without the usual whispering as it circulated around the pool. It was eerie.

Sherlock repeated his question softly, and John tore his eyes from the awful scene to answer. "I don't know. I don't know what I think."

"_I_ think," Sherlock rocked forwards on his heels, clasping his hands loosely behind his back, "that this is a message."

"A message? What- Sherlock!" But the consulting detective was already gone, ordering for the bodies to be taken down so that a closer examination could be undertaken. Leaving the officers to figure out _how_ exactly they were going to retrieve the corpses without plunging them into the water, Sherlock made his way over to Lestrade, John trailing along behind him.

"How did you find out about the bodies? The swimming pool doesn't open until eight, and even the cleaners won't be in until seven."

"An anonymous tip," Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, "We've already gone down that route. Nothing. It was obviously made on a disposable phone. They told us there'd been some "activity" down here, and that was it."

"What about the voice? Anything distinguishing about it? An accent, maybe?"

John flicked his eyes in Sherlock's direction at this, a look which was studiously ignored by the latter.

"No. If they used a disposable phone, chances are they used some kind of filter on their voice as well. Whoever they are, they don't want to be found. Not by the police, at least." The last sentence was directed at Sherlock, Lestrade having noticed the look on the detective's face.

At this, Sherlock's eyes did meet his companion's, and he smiled grimly.

John cleared his throat, "We'll have to hope there's something on the bodies, then."

* * *

After a brief period of careful manoeuvring and coordinated shifting, the police on hand managed to topple the gallows so that the bodies hanging from it could lie on the side of the pool and be cut loose for inspection.

Donning a protective suit and gloves, John followed Sherlock to the row of bodies, trying to hold back the rising sense of worry which was slowly unfurling in his chest like a blooming flower. Something was off. He just didn't know what. Yet.

Anderson looked up at the two of them when they arrived, curling up his lip at Sherlock's lack of protective clothing. "You're going to _contaminate_ them." He hissed, leaning over the closest body in an almost protective manner, "Can't you wait- Can't _he wait_?" The forensic scientist moved his gaze to Lestrade, who shook his head, once.

"This is ridiculous." Anderson stood up abruptly and stormed away, pushing his way past John with a grunt of anger. "He has no right to be here."

"Well he is here. The faster you accept that and move on, the faster we can find the one who did this to these people." John indicated the bodies with a jerk of his thumb. Beside him, Sherlock made a quiet, smug sound and crossed his arms over his chest.

Anderson inflated like an angry cat, his eyes flashing angrily. "You're just as useless. Well, more. At least _he _occasionally gets something right. What are you here for? The only thing you can help with is holding his coat." He turned his back on them all, leaving a tight-lipped John, a still-smug Sherlock and a furious Lestrade in his wake.

It was John who broke the silence that followed. "What the _hell _is wrong with him?" He finally asked, looking at the detective inspector with both eyebrows raised, "I know he's usually bad, but that was a lot worse than usual."

"God, yes, I'm sorry. I'll go speak to him." Lestrade leaned closer and spoke the rest in a conspirator's whisper, "Pretty sure something happened with Sergeant Donovan. They were an item, but…"

"That's no excuse, Lestrade," Sherlock tore his gaze from the bodies to shoot the other man a sharp look, "You should go and deal with it now."

His dismissal was evident. Lestrade rolled his eyes, nodded again at John, and headed in the direction Anderson had taken. The rest of the officers flocked behind him like chicks after a hen, and John was amused to see Sally waiting by the door, looking increasingly mortified.

* * *

"I estimate that we have around two minutes before Lestrade realises we're in here alone and sends someone to keep an eye on us. We're going to have to make this quick."

John glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, the pool was empty save for them. He moved to squat beside the closest body as Sherlock stepped around them, his square magnifying glass in one hand. The ex-army doctor cleared his throat. "You know, before, you said something about a message?"

The consulting detective stopped what he was doing to look up at him, "Yes."

"What did you mean? How could you-"

Sherlock stood up abruptly and moved to stand at the head of the first body, "I'll show you."

His companion's brow crinkled in confusion as Sherlock leant over the dead man and ripped open the shirt with a swift pull. But as he straightened up, looking triumphant, John caught his first glimpse of the man's chest and felt his breath leave him in a _whoosh_ of horror.

"Oh my- Jesus, Sherlock, how did you-? _Jesus_!" He staggered to his feet as Sherlock moved to the next body, and stood gazing down at the mutilated skin on the man's pale chest. Thankfully it had been cleaned on blood before being strung up on the gallows, but the effect was still horrifying.

A knife had been used to slice at the skin on the dead man's chest in jagged lines, and the bright pink of his exposed flesh contrasted starkly with the paper-white of his skin. "It-It's a letter…" John murmured, pressing a hand against his mouth. He'd seen a lot as an army doctor, but even this was pushing right up against his boundaries.

"Well done John," Sherlock replied in a voice that John found far too calm, given the situation. "And so are these three."

"They've all had this done to them?" John blew out a breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling, "How did you know?"

"My knife went missing." Sherlock moved closer to John, pressing something into his hand. John looked down, his mouth tight. Sherlock's multi tool knife sat on his palm, one blade stained a rusted-red colour. "Well, I say missing. I mean stolen. Someone took this knife and left another in its place." He produced a second knife from his coat pocket.

"They are identical in most aspects so that anyone but me – such as you – would not notice anything different. But there are various scratches that are missing from the replacement, and so I knew that my knife had been deliberately taken. At first I wondered if someone was going to try and frame me for a crime, as obviously my prints would be all over _my _knife. But who could get into our flat without leaving any other sign?" Sherlock fixed John with a hard gaze, "I think you know the one person who we are familiar with and fits into that category."

"_Jesus_…" John clenched his fist around the knife and drew in a deep breath.

"Oh, no, John!" Came the voice of the only person who fitted into _that category_, "Just me!"

* * *

**Alright, I'm sure everyone can guess who_ that_ is.**


	2. Fun

**This is the chapter where things are explained and nothing of interest really happens. It's the next chapter when all the fun begins. Please feel free to leave reviews/fave/follow!**

* * *

Sherlock whirled around as the familiar, unforgettable voice bounced back and forth around the pool. Where was it coming from? There was no one in the swimming pool except them, Lestrade's officers were supposed to have _checked_. The voice faded to a dim echo as John and the consulting detective scanned the building for any sign of the voice's owner, but there was no movement to give away their position.

John's hand fumbled in his picked as he searched for the gun that he _always _kept concealed in his jacket, ready for times like these. Except, of course, for this time.

_You absolute _fool_, John, _He mentally cursed himself, curling his empty hand into a tight fist, _of all the times you could choose to be forgetful!_

A giggle rippled through the pool, adding to John's discomfort. He had no weapon and no target. He was entirely vulnerable. John hated being vulnerable. "Hey, hey, hey. Boys! There's no need for guns! I only wanted to have a little chat!"

To John's right, Sherlock span slowly on the spot again, a gun – John's gun (_how on _earth _had he got hold of that?) _– held outstretched in front of him. "Moriarty," He breathed, "Where are you hiding?"

"Oh, you clever-clogs! But I'm not hiding," Moriarty laughed. This time there was a clear note of displeasure in the sound – he didn't like being seen as a coward. "I'm _observing_. Like you do. It's boring, really. At least, it was until you got here. Everyone was _so _confused-" He adopted a high, mocking voice for his next words, "-_Who did this? Where did the gallows come from? How, how,_ how?"

Moriarty paused for a moment, and when he resumed his speech, his voice had dropped into a lilting purr, "But you worked it out. Did you like the little trick with the knife? I thought you might."

Lowering the gun slightly, Sherlock shifted closer to John, his eyes fixed on something on the floor above them. "The balcony. There's a speaker set up. Moriarty isn't here." He slipped the gun into John's pocket and leant back slightly, "Let's go."

"Wait, what? Go? You want to… Sherlock, whoever is up there, they're connected to this nutter. They're with Moriarty. Shouldn't we, I don't know-" John cut off as he caught his friend's impatient gaze. Then it clicked. Oh, _right_. There was a sniper. Of course.

"Don't leave," Moriarty drew his words into a childlike whine, but instead of mildly irritating, John found it down-right creepy. That was probably the exact effect the consulting criminal wanted it to have, after all. "I haven't told you the best part yet, Sherlock. About my plan. The fun part."

Sherlock paused at his words, one hand still clutching at John's sleeve from where he'd been dragging him in the direction of the double doors leading back out onto the street.

"B-U-R-N. Burn. That's the message. I left it here on the bodies just for you, Sherlock. Do you see? I warned you before, Sherlock. I told you this would happen, but you just. Didn't. Stop. So now it's happening." His voice grew more excited, the words dancing around the two men, taunting them, staying just out of reach, just out of range, "I've been _watching_ you, Sherlock. Watching you _very_ closely. And now I know where you keep your heart. I've got it. I've got it in my hands, and I'm going to burn it. Piece by piece. Until there's nothing left but an empty space. I will burn you _alive_. And then I'll-"

They didn't hear what else Moriarty was going to do, as at the moment John pulled the gun from his pocket, and in one quick movement, raised his arm and fired a single shot at the balcony from which the other man's voice was originating from. "Shut the _fuck_ up."

* * *

There was a moment of white noise, the sound spitting through the air around them like the wings of million invisible insects, before Moriarty was back, tutting. "Sherlock, your pet is getting overprotective. I think I need to teach him some manners."

"John!" Sherlock seized the front of John's jacket and forcefully yanked the doctor towards him –just as a bullet split through the air and embedded itself in the wall which John had been stood in front of just seconds before.

Moriarty made an amused sound, "John, your Sherlock is getting overprotective. I think we need to teach him some manners, don't you agree? I'll be in touch to talk about a training programme. Bye for now, boys!"

On the balcony above them, there came the audible snap of a switch being flicked, followed by the tap of shoes rapidly retreating along a far-off corridor. As the sound of the footsteps dissipated and silence had settled across the building once more, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and dropped his head onto John's left shoulder, hard enough for the doctor to wince.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock hissed under his breath, "Completely and utterly stupid. You could have been shot."

"I don't give a toss." John replied.

* * *

John didn't know how long they were stood in that position, but he knew that Sherlock had tightened his grip around his chest at some point, because he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. "Sherlock, could you…"

The rest of his sentence was drowned out as the double doors at the other end of the pool flew open and Lestrade raced inside, closely followed by the other on-duty officers.

Sherlock instantly jerked away from John, but not before Anderson had caught a glimpse of them, his lip curling at the sight.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Lestrade's eyes skipped from Sherlock, to John, to the bullet hole behind them, "What happened?"

"I think it's fairly obvious what _happened_ here." Anderson snorted, "Holmes got everyone outside so that he could have some 'private time' with his doctor. It's disgusting, if you ask me. Two men-"

"Firstly, nobody asked for your opinion, Anderson, and you were completely wrong anyway. Secondly, you seem to have completely missed the bullet hole in the wall. Not that I'm surprised, missing the obvious does seem to be a habit of yours. And thirdly, do you really want to get into an argument over relationships? Because if I remember correctly – which, of course, I do – your marriage broke down after you had an affair with Sergeant Donovan, but _that _relationship didn't last long. It seems to me that _you're_ the one who's disgusting here, not myself or John."

"Now hold on just on minute! Am I missing something important here?" John peered around at Sherlock, "I don't remember ever-"

"Be quiet John."

"Okay. Okay," John nodded to himself, then opened his mouth to blurt out, "However, I would just like to point out that Sherlock and I are not… we're not anything. That was purely work-related, back there. I was almost shot and Sherlock pulled me out of the way and that… that was the position we ended up in." _Jesus. _That made it sound even worse.

"I told you to be quiet." Sherlock gave a wide, false smile to the police, who all seemed more than a little bit stunned, and Anderson's mouth opened and closed mutely as he struggled to formulate a fitting reply.

"Yep. I made that worse, I'm sorry. Next time I'll keep my mouth shut." John muttered back, matching Sherlock's grin with an innocent-looking one of his own.

"I think that is a good idea."

Thankfully, it was Lestrade who regained control of himself first, giving himself an almost visible mental shake before clapping his hands together sharply. "All right you lot, get a hold of yourselves. There's a bullet in the wall and no one in custody, get a move on! Four groups, I want a complete search of the area. Now!"

A ripple of laughter moved across the gathered officers as the spell over them broke, and they split into the groups the detective inspector had ordered them to form. More than once, John caught the eye of one of them glancing back at him as they filed out through the double doors.

He managed to keep a straight face until the doors had swung shut behind the last pair, before he dissolved into slightly hysterical laughter, his hands braced against his knees. "That went well." He wheezed.

Sherlock gave him an odd look, "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John."

"Who says I was being sarcastic? I'm serious."

Lestrade held his hand up before Sherlock could fit in a reply, "Could we just get back to the explanation?"

* * *

John insisted that he should be the one to go over the event with Lestrade, despite Sherlock's loud protests, as, according to him, the detective was prone to "going off at a tangent" and inserting "unnecessary, snide comments". So while the doctor was talking and gesturing wildly, Sherlock wandered away from them, over to the bullet hole in the wall.

He stretched one gloved hand out to hover just above it, his brow furrowed in thought. A skilled marksman had shot the bullet, that much was obvious. As was the fact that John would have been dead if he'd waited one more second to pull him out of the way.

Unconsciously, his mind replayed the three words from Moriarty's speech that had stuck with him. _Piece by piece._

_Piece by-_

"John," Sherlock jerked his hand away from the wall with a start and strode over to the other men, unaware that he had cut the doctor off midway through a sentence, and was now on the receiving end of a particularly irritated glare, "You have told Lestrade everything he needs to know."

"Well, actually, I-"

"Good." Sherlock waved a hand in Lestrade's direction, "The shooter was male, tall, and made his escape through one of the top floor windows. He climbed onto the roof of the neighbouring building and exited via the fire escape. You won't find him; he'll have been picked up by now."

Tightening his hand around John's wrist, he set off for the exit determinedly, "John, we have something to do."

"Do we? _Do_ we?" A worried expression flitted across his features, to be quickly replaced by one of stubbornness, "Sherlock, no. We're not… no. Stop."

Sherlock gave John a sharp look, "Oh, don't be dense. Be quiet, walk and find a taxi. I will be with you shortly."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade shouted after him reprovingly, an exasperated expression on his face. "I really need your cooperation with this. Do you mean you know who the man was?"

"I have an idea. I'll be in touch." Propelling John out through the doors, Sherlock gave him a sharp prod in the direction of the road. The doctor shot him a questioning glance as he hurried away, but Sherlock's attention was already elsewhere and he missed the look entirely.

_Time to test his theory._

* * *

"Anderson."

The forensic scientist jumped slightly as Sherlock materialised beside him, and then he scowled, stepping backwards to put some distance between the two of them.

"What do you want? I'm not in the mood for any more of your games."

No, actually," Sherlock straightened his back and raised his voice, "I'm here to apologise."

"What?" Anderson let out a bark of laughter, glancing quickly at the police officers nearby who had turned to watch the exchange with mild interest, "Sherlock Holmes, apologising?"

The consulting detective gave a slightly distracted nod, his eyes narrowed at an officer stood directly behind Anderson. He seemed to be concentrating on the conversation a lot more than was appropriate. A half-smile touched Sherlock's mouth before he focused his attention on Anderson again, "Yes. I am sorry for the harshness of my words; I wasn't thinking properly and spoke purely on impulse. I'd just like you to know that… you are a vital member of the team, and your presence at crime scenes is extremely useful to me."

"Is this- this is a joke."

"No, it isn't, but you can pretend it is if that makes you feel more comfortable."

Anderson couldn't think of anything to say to _that,_ and after watching him flounder helplessly for a few moments, Sherlock nodded curtly at him and moved past, making sure he got a clear view of the unnaturally-interested policeman.

Tall. Military-style cut which was beginning to grow out. Held himself as a soldier would; straight back, silent, unmoving. Obviously he'd been in the army at some point, but it had been a while. The tan had all but faded from his skin, and there was a restless glisten in his eyes, the same one John had had when he'd first met him.

"Can I help you, Mr Holmes?" The man's voice was clipped, direct, cold.

Sherlock gave him a last once over and smiled quickly, "Your shoelace is undone. Were you in a rush this morning?"

The man stared at him for a long moment, then a razor-like smile cut across his lips, "Something like that."

As Sherlock strode away, he glanced over his shoulder inconspicuously to see the policeman staring at Anderson, the dark smile still fixed on his face. Sherlock matched it with a smirk of his own.

_And now we wait._

He found John stood impatiently next to an idling taxi, his arms folded across his chest. "Good, you found a taxi." Sherlock nudged John inside it and seated himself opposite, turning briefly to give the cabbie the address of their flat.

"I have quite a few questions." When Sherlock didn't reply, John began asking them anyway, "What happened over there? I saw you talking to Anderson, and for once it didn't look as if he wanted to throw you from a high building."

"I was apologising." The consulting detective adjusted his coat, looking away from John, "Not one of my most convincing speeches, I'll admit. But at least you weren't there to ruin it."

John ignored the snub, the setting of his jaw the only sign of his annoyance. "So… you _weren't_ apologising? Uh, what were you doing then?"

Sherlock gave a soft sigh, flexing his hands inside his gloves. "Making him a target."

"A target? What the hell do you mean?"

Pursing his lips, Sherlock pressed his hands together and propped his head on top of his fingers, closing his eyes, "Not now John, I'm trying to think."

Recognising this as one of Sherlock's typical I'm-not-completely-sure-but-I'm-not-going-to-admit-it phrases, John moved on breezily, "Okay, next question. Those bodies… you know, did you see that, well, they all looked a lot like you?"

"Yes," Sherlock let a breath out through his nose, "I'll give Lestrade approximately five minutes to make the connection."

* * *

Sure enough, six minutes after Sherlock had sunk into a brooding silence (yes, John kept count, he'd had nothing else to do), which John couldn't break him from, no matter what he said, his mobile chimed and flashed to indicate a new message.

When Sherlock made no move to pick it up from the seat next to him, John rolled his eyes and plucked it up instead, scanning his eyes across the screen.

_i'm assuming it isn't a coincidence that four men who could be your stunt doubles are lying dead. an explanation would be nice. – lestrade_

Before John could reply, the phone chirped again.

_and what the hell does BURN mean? i'll be at the flat at the same time tomorrow and i'm not leaving until i get some answers. this is ridiculous! – lestrade_

_John here. I'll c u tomorrow._

An answer arrived almost instantaneously.

_he's thinking? – lestrade _The quotation marks around the word didn't have to be added for John to see them. He gave a short chuckle before typing in a reply.

_Very hard, apparently. Not sure wht about._

_that fucking man. – lestrade_

* * *

Back at 221b, John made himself a tea, wondered whether it would be too cheeky to ring Mrs Hudson and ask her to bring up a packet of biscuits, decided _yes, yes it would_, and, after taking a last look at Sherlock's stony expression, gave him up as a lost cause and headed back to bed. When you lived in the same flat as Sherlock Holmes, almost being shot didn't have much of an effect on you - the surprise of it wore off after a while. In John's case, it just made him desperate to get back to sleep.


	3. One

**And so it begins. Tell me what you think, people! I'm interested to hear what you want to happen (so I can do the opposite)! Eheheheh.**

"_Do you mind if I walk with you?" _

_The man looks round sharply as the woman who'd spoken falls into step beside him, then he shrugs and smiles wryly, "Be my guest."_

"_I'm sorry about earlier." She is watching for his reaction closely, he can see it out of the corner of his eye. He lifts his shoulders up slightly in response._

"_Why? It wasn't your fault."_

_The woman laughs, and he feels his heart plummet into his shoes. That laugh – so bright, so happy – was the reason he'd fallen for her in the first place. She was the only one to laugh at his pointless jokes. And in return, he was the one who laughed at hers. Until he ruined it. Not that he expected it to turn out any other way. Not really._

"_It takes two to tango." Her smile fades as she speaks, and she squints past him into the gloom. The car park is abnormally dark for so late, obviously someone has forgotten to turn on the floodlights. But somewhere in the shadows her car is waiting, and after that, her home, a mug of coffee and a late night._

_It doesn't take them long to reach his car, and they stand awkwardly for a while, with her hugging her elbows against the chill, him tossing his keys from hand to hand nervously. Did she expect him to walk her to her car? That is how they first hooked up, and he shouldn't…_couldn't _let that happen again. No matter how much he wants it._

"_I guess I'll see you tomorrow." He says. _I'm sorry, I can't_. He implies._

_She sighs, a soft, disappointed huff of air, nodding down at her shoes. "Maybe. I have a late shift."_

_And that was that. The woman steps away without looking back. The man bangs his head repeatedly against the car door none too gently. _

_He stays like that until he hears her scream._

"_No," The man whispers. "No, no, no, no, no!" He runs. Why had he let her go alone? It is dark, too dark, and there are rapists and gangs and murderers and _God_!_

_He skids to a stop when he reaches her car. Two men. One of them is leant over her, pressing a cloth to her face. She is almost unconscious, but she manages to stretch a hand shakily towards him before her eyes slip closed. He tears he eyes away from her as she falls limply into her captor's arms. _

"_I've called the police." The man speaks in – what he hopes – is a convincingly calm voice, "I'd leave while you still can."_

_One of the other men turns, leaving the other to deal with… her. His chest clenches painfully._

_The man takes a quick step towards him, tilting his head to the side like a curious bird. He is small, and his eyes are as cold and black as rocks. There is a tense moment of silence, then his lips quirk up in a small smile and he speaks. "You are a friend of Sherlock Holmes."_

_His words are stated, rather than asked, but the man still feels a need to correct him, "No, I-"_

_Something hard hits the back of his head and he pitches forward without another sound. He is unconscious before he hits the ground, hard._

_The man claps his hands, "Ohhh," He – _almost _- cooed in a high Irish accent, "_Lovely _shot, Seb!"_


	4. Cars

I am so, so sorry about the delay in updating! Exams, personal life, repeatedly scrapping work and re-writing it... urg. I apologise. Hopefully this will make up for the long wait, and this time there shouldn't be such a lengthy gap between updates, I swear.

* * *

"Coffee. I need coffee," was how John Watson greeted Lestrade at five o'clock the next morning, his hair rumpled and his shoulders hunched against the chill of the flat. He gave the detective inspector a bleary look and belatedly remembered his manners, "Do you want… anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Lestrade patted his friend sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed him at the foot of the stairs, "Sorry you had to get up, John. I only needed Sherlock."

John mumbled something along the lines of _the bloody gunshots _under his breath as he rooted around the counter for a clean-_ish_ mug. Finding none – his usual mug seemed to have vanished from the kitchen _again _– he slammed a hand against the wooden countertop and slumped against it, defeated. "Where _is_ Sherlock, anyway?"

"I'm not entirely sure." Lestrade shrugged, then frowned and pointed at the wall of the sitting room, where round holes peppering the plaster marked the extent of Sherlock's growing boredom, "Hang on, are those _all _bullet holes?"

"I'm here," The consulting detective materialised in the doorway before the doctor could answer, a mug cradled in both hands, "I made you tea, John."

"Tea," John resisted the urge to scream and smash the mug against the wall, Hulk-style. He had drunk so much of the accursed beverage over the last few days; he was beginning to worry that it would start seeping from his ears. With a visible amount of effort, he pulled himself upright and smiled. "Tea. That's great, thanks. But I hope you're not going to make a habit of this drink-preparing business. This isn't drugged, is it?" His question was only half-joking, and he accepted the mug warily, eyeing it with mild suspicion.

Sherlock sniffed in an affronted manner. "You didn't have to get up, you know. I was bringing this up to you."

John's smile turned brittle at the edges, "Yes, well. Unfortunately I had a bit of trouble sleeping this morning. I think you know why." He added the last sentence pointedly, levelling a glare at the taller man.

"Nightmares?" Sherlock replied innocently, "I didn't think they were bothering you anymore."

Pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, John blew out a heavy sigh. "No. This time it was the gunshots, Sherlock. Bloody _gunshots_. At three in the morning. It's a wonder you didn't give Mrs Hudson a heart attack!"

"Oh, she's had worse, John. No need to spend your nights sitting and fretting over our landlady's health. She's much stronger than you make her out to be." Sherlock waved his hand flippantly in a way that made John grit his teeth to bite back a growl of frustration.

"I wasn't-"

"Hey! Are you two listening to me at all?"

"Hmm," Sherlock made a face and pretended to consider it for a moment, "No."

"Yes, _hilarious_." Lestrade frowned at him and repeated his last question, "Can one of you explain the bullet holes?"

"Oh!" Sherlock's silver eyes flashed with a glimmer of amusement, "The gun, of course!" He reached into his dressing gown pocket and placed a handgun on the table a moment later, sliding it towards Lestrade, who seized it and studied it intently. "Sherlock, how on _Earth _did you get hold of this? It's a police-issue gun!"

The consulting detective raised his eyebrows, "I was performing an external investigation into how easy it is for one to gain control of a police weapon. The results were _shocking_, Lestrade. You really do need to get your officers in order – I simply plucked this from one of their belts as I was leaving the pool. The lack of a reaction would have been almost horrifying… if it wasn't confirming what I already knew."

Lestrade's cheeks flamed with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. John snorted into his tea. If he hadn't felt so sleep-deprived, he might have laughed.

Clearing his throat in the silence that followed, Lestrade stuffed the gun into his jacket and attempted to regain control of the situation. "Yes, well," He stammered, "I _could_ arrest you for this."

"But you won't." Sherlock stated simply, sounding bored, "We've been through this already, Detective Inspector. You'd be lost without me."

"Yes," The DI replied slowly, "But I will if you keep withholding evidence. I need everything you've got concerning yesterday's incident, pronto."

"All in good time." Sherlock dropped into a seat at the kitchen table and busied himself in stacking the half-dozen Tupperware containers strewn across it, each one housing a human nose in varying stages of decomposition. "In the meantime, where is Sergeant Donovan? I thought she'd be on hand to try to disprove every sentence I utter."

Lestrade looked to be in mild pain at his words, "I'd tell you if I had any idea. She didn't turn up this morning."

"Is she ill?" John set his unfinished tea on the counter, "There's been a bug going round lately, I've had loads of patients turning up for sick-leave notes."

"Yeah, that's what I'd have thought too… but her car is still in the Yard's car park. And so was Anderson's. He isn't in, either."

At that, Sherlock straightened up, the containers instantly forgotten.

John's brow furrowed, "The cars have been there all night?"

"Seems so. CCTV seems to indicate it, although it _can_ be patchy at night. The guys on the night shift said they never saw either of them leave in the cars, but a couple of them said they spoke to one or the other when they left the building." Lestrade raised his hands in a helpless gesture, "There's not much we can do. There's every chance that the two of them nipped off for a drink at the local pub and ended up bedding down in a Travel Lodge. Knowing their history, that's actually sounding pretty likely right now. And it's been done before. But…"

"… Why wouldn't they take at least one of the cars?" Sherlock finished in a speculative voice, "Why would they leave them and go on foot? Not only would that generate rumours, none of the pubs or hotels are close enough to play the "may as well get some exercise while we're at it" card."

"So you don't think that's what they did?" Lestrade massaged his temples with a groan, "What exactly do you think we're dealing with, then?"

Sherlock shot John a swift, unreadable glance, which the doctor returned stonily, mouthing, "Anderson?!"

The consulting detective tightened his jaw and span away, rising to his feet with a flourish of his arms. "I need to see the cars."

* * *

"You still haven't explained about the pool, Sherlock. Why?" It was half an hour later, and Lestrade was jogging next to Sherlock in an attempt to keep up with the taller man's long strides. "Are you hiding something? Or… covering for someone? Because that would be fine." He corrected himself hastily, "No, it wouldn't be fine, but at least I'd know where I'm standing with you."

"Don't be dense, Detective Inspector. I just assumed you'd be more interested in discovering why two of your colleagues vanished last night. From right under your nose, I might add."

Lestrade's expression hardened, "There are currently four bodies laid on slabs in St. Bart's morgue, and right now, the only thing I'll be able to tell their grieving families is that their chests appear to have been used as a drawing board. Oh, _and_ that they all share an uncanny resemblance to a consulting detective who answers to the name _Sherlock Holmes_. There are whispers going around the team that you should be brought in as a suspect. _Again_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Lestrade, I can assure you that now that if I ever choose to execute a murder, I will ensure it is carried out in a much less barbaric manner. Gallows aren't really my _style_. They are, apparently, Moriarty's. It seems the man is full of surprises."

"That isn't funny, Sherlock."

"Good, because I wasn't intending for it to be so." He scanned his eyes across the car park as he continued to speak, "I thought John had told you what happened?" Two cars at the far end – which he recognised as Anderson and Donovan's – caught his attention, and he span in a quick circle to estimate their distance from the building behind them. A considerable way. _Far enough that a struggle would have gone unnoticed and a quickly muffled scream unheard. _Sherlock forced back a triumphant smile and returned his eyes to Lestrade.

"All he managed to get out was something about a sniper on the balcony before you dragged him out."

"I see," Sherlock gave a resigned sigh, "Now may not be the best time…"

"Now is a _very_ good time, thanks." Lestrade's arm snaked out to pull Sherlock back before he drew ahead again, "I've had enough of you dancing around a straight answer every time I ask. You can tell me now, or you're not helping on cases for the foreseeable future."

_An ultimatum. How_ childish. The consulting detective considered Lestrade silently.

* * *

"Moriarty was behind this? _Bomber_ Moriarty?"

"Your _knife_? He broke into your _flat_?"

"God, Sherlock… God!"

"This lunatic is holed up somewhere and he's got some… hired _gunman_ delivering messages to you?"

"This is insane. Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me this earlier?"

Sherlock didn't bother to reply to any of Lestrade's loud remarks, preferring to barrel through the events of the previous day so that he could return to the far more _pressing _matter at hand.

During the last section of Sherlock's recital, the DI fell completely silent, his expression growing darker by the word.

"So are you trying to tell me that _this_, with Anderson and Donovan, is connected to Moriarty?" Lestrade asked, dragging his hands down his face with a horrified groan, "And that _you_ potentially caused it?"

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels, pushing his hands into his coat pockets as he watched the other man carefully. "Possibly."

"But not definitely?"

One side of the consulting detective's lips quirked into a wry smile, "Definitely possible."

The detective inspector let out a hissing breath from between clenched teeth. "God, give me strength!" He muttered, raising his eyes skyward, "How does John put up with you in that flat?"

"With great difficulty, he's told me so himself. Numerous times." Sherlock turned away impatiently, "Now, if you're quite finished, I need to look at the cars."

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes,_ John had decided, _was a bastard._

A complete and utter one at that.

Of course, the doctor had known that the way Sherlock treated people was… abnormal, to say the least, but never before had the consulting detective's actions left him feeling so disgusted. And angry. _Furious. Livid_. Sherlock had known what Moriarty was planning – he _always_ knew – and had known that the criminal would target the people Sherlock _needed_. Sherlock had pushed Anderson and Donovan into his path on purpose, as if they were part of an experiment, or a piece in his horrific _game_ with Moriarty.

John's stomach rolled at the thought. Even though he didn't particularly _like_ the pair, the knowledge that his friend could be capable of such a _heartless_ act… it had brought John crashing back down to reality. He wasn't enjoying himself.

That was why he'd refused to accompany Sherlock and Greg to the Met. Instead he'd headed in the opposite direction to the waiting taxi, Sherlock's reproachful gaze burning into his back and the man's parting words – "would you have preferred for me to let him take _you_?" – ringing in his ears like an accusation. As if he was expected to _thank _Sherlock for getting Anderson and Donovan abducted or murdered or God-only-knew-what. That _bastard_. It had been entirely the wrong thing to say to John. Because yes, as a matter of fact, he _would _have preferred that. At least then he wouldn't be filled with the feeling of guilt and niggling thoughts at the back of his head that whispered _it's your fault, John Watson. You're to blame._

If he'd been attacked, Anderson and Donovan wouldn't be missing. So Sherlock could stop acting as if he'd done John a _favour_, for crying out loud.

John's mobile chimed with a new message, and he carefully extracted it from the pocket of his jeans as he walked. A glance at the words displayed on the small screen only caused his scowl to deepen.

**You are still irritated. SH**

The consulting detective was on top form. That had to be one of his best observations yet.

His phone beeped again in his hand and John glared down at it, reluctantly resigning himself to the fact that if he ignored them, they would only be sent more frequently.

**I apologise. SH**

_Alright, I can work with that. It's a step in the right direction— _John's positive thought ground to a halt at the arrival of Sherlock's next text.

**I did not realise you had such levels of affection for Anderson and Donovan. SH**

John ground his teeth together and thumbed out a terse answer: _Stop txting. Not in the mood._

Shoving the phone away, John sped up his walking pace, as if putting distance between him and 221B was taking him further away from the recent events. He had been automatically heading in the direction of the local shop, and had just decided to drop in and pick up a few things – milk, coffee, beans – when he realised the time. Quarter past five. _Maybe not the shop, then. _On the plus side, the early time meant that the streets were much quieter, with only the occasional pedestrian hurrying past with bowed heads and shuffling limbs, looking as sleep-deprived as he felt. The roads were noisy, as usual, but John was accustomed to tuning out the sounds of traffic.

He was so busy mentally rejoicing at the first moments of _almost_ peace and quiet he'd had for days that John didn't notice the woman heading in the other direction until they collided and he felt something hot splashing across his shirt.

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry! I was just- Oh, I wasn't looking where I was going, and now you're covered in coffee!" The woman babbled out repeated apologies, her hands hovering over his dripping button-up, a concerned expression on her – _attractive_, John noticed, as he glanced at her - face. "Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry."

John shook his head with a quick smile, "No, I'm fine. _I_ should be the one apologising. I seem to have most of your coffee on my shirt. You'll have to let me buy you another one."

The woman's face lit up, and then she bit her lip, "I can't let you walk around in a wet shirt. Maybe you should-"

Interrupting her before she could finish, John indicated over her shoulder to the small internet café she must have just left. It was one of the only places open at this time. "I'm sure I can clean myself up with a couple of napkins. Don't worry, I've been covered in worse – I'm a doctor. Coffee is almost a blessing."

Smiling widely at him, the woman relented and fell into step beside John as he led her towards the café. "If you're sure…"

"Absolutely..?" John trailed off and glanced sideways at her, hoping she would fill in the blank.

Twisting one hand into her blonde ponytail, she met his gaze with another, shyer smile of her own, "Mary. That's my name, if you were wondering."

* * *

**Just arrived at the Met. SH**

**Could really use your assistance. SH**

_Not now, busy._

**Busy? **

_Busy._

Sherlock pressed his lips together thinly, irritated at John's abrupt replies. Busy doing what? Shopping? Surely the jam could wait until a time when the shops were actually open. He had the distinct feeling that John was just resisting to help him because he was still angry. Which would be fine, except it was not helping him work-out Moriarty's plans. Again, the doctor seemed to be getting the meanings of _caring _and _being deliberately awkward_ confused.

Huffing out a short breath, his gaze fell on Lestrade, who was standing to one side with two pairs of protective gloves clenched in a fist. Well, he didn't have John. Or his skull. The detective inspector would have to do.

Stalking forwards, Sherlock snatched his gloves from the other man and strode past, leaving Lestrade to catch up as well as he could.

The area surrounding Anderson and Donovan's cars had been cordoned off with police tape, leaving the two vehicles stranded in the middle. Sherlock made a beeline towards them, snapping the gloves up around his wrists as he walked.

"Not sure why they're parked at the far-end, but maybe—"

"Sergeant Donovan doesn't want to risk her car getting scratched, Anderson enjoys the extra exercise."

Lestrade simply grunted in reply – _obviously_ – and after that the two moved in silence until they were ducking under the police tape, at which point the DI began filling him in. "The cars were locked, but we can get into them if we need to and—"

"No point, there will be nothing inside them."

"What? How do you know?"

They had reached Donovan's car, and Sherlock span around again, his gaze fixed to the ground at their feet. "Neither of them had time to get into their cars. This is where it happened. Anderson was walking Donovan to her car, or possibly he heard her scream and came to investigate. Probably the latter, he isn't exactly a _gentleman_. He ran, hurried over, Donovan was struggling, trying to open her door. Attempting to set off the alarm? Anderson stopped, pleaded, probably begged for them to let her go, but didn't get too close. Didn't try to fight. Someone came up to him from behind – waiting beside the car, hidden, he wouldn't have seen them – and hit him with… a gun. A pistol. _Military_-service pistol. _Brilliant_. Small, didn't do much damage, but was used with enough force to knock him unconscious. They were both dragged…" He paused in his deduction, darting past a speechless Lestrade to survey the concrete further from the car, "this way." He pointed, "A car was waiting over there. Dark coloured, probably black. It'd be harder to spot if it stayed out of the lights. Which it did." Casting a second look over the area, Sherlock straightened up and gave a firm nod.

"Right, that's the easy part over. Now we just need to find the note."

At that, the detective inspector came to life, closing a hand around Sherlock's arm to keep him in place. "_Easy_ part? Note? How do you know there's a note? You're going to have to go through that again, _slower_. I need the evidence. How did you get all that?"

The consulting detective gave Lestrade a scathing look, "Of course there's a note. Look around you. _Observe_. This was planned, these people knew where Anderson and Donovan would be parked and when they were leaving… and they were fast. This was done by people who have kidnapped before. They know how to clear up after themselves. But they haven't. They've left _clues_, little _signs_. Specifically for _me _to find, not your officers, who usually can't locate a body until they trip over it."

Lestrade bristled at the slight and tightened his grip, "So why does that mean there's a note? Come on Sherlock, _explain_. I'm not having a repeat of yesterday. Tell me everything now, or God help me, I'll…" He didn't bother finishing. It was an empty threat anyway.

Sherlock uttered a resigned sigh. _This_ was why he needed John. His doctor never asked such stupid questions. But true to form, the consulting detective was always ready to show-off and prove that he was right. "All of the marks are concentrated around Donovan's car." He gestured widely as he spoke, indicating each piece of evidence as he described it, "It is _obvious_ that it took place here. There are signs of a struggle on Donovan's part; small scuffs on the concrete, made when she was kicking her legs, trying to get her feet under her. All she got for her troubles was a slightly chipped heel. There are, however, no signs of a struggle with Anderson, ergo, he was pleading, rather than fighting."

"Maybe there are some near his car?"

"Let me _finish_, Lestrade." Sherlock wrenched his arm from the other man's grip and stepped towards the car, squatting down beside it to trace his fingers across the metal. "There are slight scratches on the lower part of the car door, so she was being held down by one man, but managed to free her arm and…" He dragged his glove-clad fingers down the door in demonstration, before standing up and circling the car, Lestrade following closely. "Cigarette ash on the ground. A small amount, he wasn't stood here long. A cheap brand, one that can be purchased from any number of corner shops in this area." He completed his tour of the car and stooped down beside a few small drops of blood, which were almost unnoticeable. _Almost_. "Only small spatters of blood, but the gun was swung hard enough to break the skin." Sherlock pointed in the direction of more tiny droplets, which made a trail until they abruptly stopped. "He was _carried_, not dragged. As was Donovan. This means there were at least three men. Two for carrying. And Moriarty, of course. To leave the note."

"Alright, alright," Lestrade held up his hands, accepting that he had been justly put in his place. "But you keep going on about this note. _What_ note?"

"Jim Moriarty carved a _message_ for me into the chests of four men. Do you really think he's going to abduct two people without leaving a _note_?"

_Well, when he put it like that_… The DI scanned the crime-scene again, "So, just a note? On paper? No bodies this time?"

"Not unless he has Anderson and Donovan hidden in the boot." Sherlock answered shortly, now on his hands and knees to peer under the car.

"Oh, _Jesus_," Lestrade's face blanched, "Oh God, _could_ they be?"

The consulting detective only sighed loudly in response, which quickly turned into an exclamation of victory. He knelt back on his heels at the rear of the car, carefully extracting a rag from the exhaust. When it was free, Sherlock bent his head over it and sniffed warily, then drew his head back sharply. "Chloroform." He shook out the fabric, snatching at the scrap of paper that fell from inside it with an _I-told-you-so_ smirk for the DI.

With Lestrade looming over his shoulder, Sherlock smoothed the note over his knee, expecting a clue, or a set of directions, or maybe even a flirty "looking _good_, sexy" from the criminal. So he was more than a little bit disconcerted when the only thing note on the sheet of paper was:

**U**

There was a beat of silence, during which Sherlock scoured the note for other letters. _Nothing_. U? What was _that_ supposed to mean?

"… Is that code?" Lestrade finally inquired. Sherlock's lips tightened in annoyance. Because he had _no idea_. And that was decidedly _not_ good.

* * *

After a tedious hour of infuriatingly inconclusive brainstorming on the letter U and the meaning Moriarty could possibly have for it, Sherlock was just as stumped as Lestrade. Which was an insulting situation to be in, to say the least. As he strode away from Scotland Yard, his arm indicating for the attention of a taxi, his mind was elsewhere. Because there had to be a meaning. It couldn't be a trick, he _was not_ reading too far into it. Moriarty _wanted_ Sherlock confused, that was all.

_U is the chemical symbol for Uranium. U is the twenty-first letter in the alphabet_. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

As was becoming the norm when Sherlock hit a road-block in his investigations, he turned to John as his personal light-conductor. And then remembered, with a flash of irritation, that the other man was still angry. Or maybe not. Two hours was ample time to recover.

It took John two tries to answer his phone. "Yes, Sherlock?" _He sounds happier. Almost… _too_ happy. _Sherlock pulled the mobile from his ear and glared at it.

"You have met another woman. Where did you pick this one up?" He tried not to sound _too_ snappy. So that was what John got up to while he was supposedly _furious_ with him.

"Mary. She's wonderful. Spilt coffee all over me—"

"I fear that is foreshadowing the end of your relationship – her upending a beverage over your head-"

"—and I made her let me buy her another cup." John continued as if Sherlock hadn't spoken, "Turned out to be more than one cup, actually. Although I'm not really sure the crap they churn out at the internet café down the road can even be _called_ coffee. Absolutely vile."

"Where are you?" Sherlock succeeded in flagging down a cab and leapt inside, "We have work to do."

"I'm heading back to the flat and—Oof! Sorry, second time today that's…" The line crackled, "Hey, get off, what are you—"

"John?" _No_. "John!"

The call ended with a shrill beep. _No!_


End file.
